


The Steam Mistress' End (Y!Kane x Steam Mistress(Fem!Reader))

by WestFunction



Category: Pirate101 (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Based on the story by DJFire102 because this wonderful story deserves an ending, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangle, Major Character Death(?), Obsessive Behavior, Pirates, Yandere, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:55:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WestFunction/pseuds/WestFunction
Summary: The Steam Mistress' blood holds the power to fuel any machine or clockwork. This makes her, and her blood, highly sought-after in the skyways of the Spiral.Kane, the leader of the Armada, plans to capture the Steam Mistress and complete himself in the land of El Dorado. Now that he has the final piece of his Grand Design, nothing stands in his way ... but himself.THIS IS NOT MY ORIGINAL PREMISE! This is a continuation of the wonderful story "The Steam Mistress" by DJFire102, which currently has no ending. The Steam Mistress, Sir Guiart, Grandfather Clocksworth and the general plot of the fic all belong to DJFire102. Please go read the original work at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848007.
Relationships: Deacon (Pirate101)/Reader, Fem!Reader/Deacon (Pirate101), Fem!Reader/Kane (Pirate101), Kane (Pirate101)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. VII

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DJFire102](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJFire102/gifts).



> THIS IS NOT MY ORIGINAL PREMISE! This is a continuation of the wonderful story "The Steam Mistress" by DJFire102, which currently has no ending. The Steam Mistress, Sir Guiart, Grandfather Clocksworth and the general plot of the fic all belong to DJFire102. Please go read the original work at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848007.

Without missing a beat, Kane unsheathed his rapier and splayed your hand. In a flash of silver, the feather-thin blade cut lengthwise across your index finger. He watched as a drop of crimson blood swelled from the incision.

You cried in pain and drew your hand away, but Kane pulled you back roughly, spattering blood on the golden floor. You watched in disbelief as the blood pooled on the gears below you. A soft red glow pulsed from the liquid, once, twice. With a groan and a lurch, the Machine’s gears launched into action, every piston pumping and every cog spinning with renewed vigour.

_The blood of a Steam Mistress, with the power to fuel any machine …_

His grip tightened. “It is truly you. After all this time.”

Those words should have made you smile, but you couldn’t help but flinch at the cold rumble his voice had become. It sounded like the echoes of a rock falling down a well; the sockets in his eyes were black pits that bored into you; his heart …

You felt his chest. The fabric was cool, and his chassis was still. It was hollow.

“Kane … What have you done?”

Kane stood to his full height, but you clung on, hoping the beat of your own heart would be enough for the both of you. The Kane you had known in your youth was but a forgotten shadow, and his face was but a mask. You felt a pang in your heart as you recalled leaving Able. The resemblance between him and Kane was still striking, and so painful.

“Deacon.”

“Yes, my Lord?” You whipped around. Indeed, Deacon was observing you two from a fair distance away. He approached Kane with his hands folded behind his back.

“Ready the fleets, and [y/n]. We have acquired the final piece of the puzzle. We sail for El Dorado.”

Deacon’s eyes jerked to yours, then back to Kane.

“Right now?”

“Immediately.”

“It is likely that she will not be ready by that time, m-“

_“Now.”_

Deacon clenched his fists, but soon returned them to their position behind his back. “Yes, my Lord.”

Kane slowly pried your body off of his. You hung on for dear life to his cold hands. This was a mockery of the gentleness he used to show you, a bare echo of the days you had once spent clinging to each other as you slept. When he drew away from you, Deacon replaced him, and he guided you toward the elevator.

You followed Deacon blindly. The Machine, once gleaming with gold and lapis, seemed grey, and all the intricate designs were no longer pleasing, but soulless and sharp. You stood on your tiptoes to keep your eyes fixed on Kane until the doors of the elevator closed. A cold feeling settled inside your chest.

Deacon pressed a few buttons. With a lurch, the elevator spiralled downward, and the helix tracks went by in a whirr of wind and steam.

Deacon grabbed your arms and pushed you to the elevator wall. You flinched out of your stupor. A gear pierced the skin where your arms met the wall, and you fought down a cry.

“I told you not to look at him! Why did you disobey my orders?”

“I-it’s been seven years!” you cried out.

Deacon released you roughly. You feverishly wiped your arm, and then attempted to clean your blood off the wall, where some of it was already glowing. The elevator jerked once and shot downward, billowing your hair around you. You clenched your teeth as both of you slammed to the ground.

 _I must be careful not to bleed in this place,_ you thought. _The entire thing is a machine, and if any more of my blood enters it, there’s no telling as to the effect it will have._

Deacon stomped ahead of you until you reached a set of double doors. The burnished mahogany looked utterly out of place amid the golden Machine, but the engravings were strangely familiar. A soft light shone from within. The spymaster gestured wordlessly for you to enter.

A placard glimmered on the right side: _[Y/n] Clocksworth._

Feeling your heart leap in your throat, you pushed open the doors and rushed inside.

The familiar curtains, walls, floor, desk, carpet – they surrounded you. Instantly, you were transported to the bedroom of your youth. This was a perfect replica, down to the embroidery on the pillows. Your arms and legs wobbled as you opened the desk drawers – sure enough, your drawings were inside. You flung open the closet; your dresses hung there, and behind them your shirts and trousers, exactly in the secret place you kept them. You flew about the room, breath hitching at every detail, every stich, crack, and seam, until you collapsed on the floor in a mess of tears. The only thing missing was your night-light and its spinning galaxy of stars …

Your eyes flickered to your desk. Upon it was a small golden object. Your sobs renewed when you took it in the palms of your hands – your forgotten music box!

It was perfect. It was as though you had never left, and the seven cruel years you had been away from Cuspary had never transpired.

“These will be your lodgings for now,” said Deacon, looking down at you.

“Thank you,” you said, a bit embarrassed at the tears that refused to stop flowing from your face.

“I didn’t build this,” Deacon replied simply, looking around, “Kane did.” The soft pink light looked odd on his strict white face. He looked back at you with an unreadable expression. He took a deep breath.

“[Y/n], I shall be straight with you. Tomorrow, Kane will drain your blood. He will use it to become a god.

“Tomorrow, you will die.”

\---

“Brutus, where is my mother?”

The hulking man looked down. The boy wore a simple white mask, with gold embroidery around the eyes. A rough-spun tunic hid the rest of his mechanical body from sight.

Brutus clenched his stubbly jaw, but softened just a bit at the child’s pleading.

“I don’t know. The Ancient Witchdoctor might.”

“May I see her?”

“No. She is too weak.”

Able tilted his head. “When may I see her?”

Brutus smirked. “When she gets stronger. Go play with the others.”

“I have already played with the others. I have learned many things. But I don’t know where mother is.”

“If you had learned _enough,”_ said Brutus, a little annoyed, “You would have learned that when something is to be done, people will leave. Including your mother.”

Able remained, not taking his hint.

_Now, what will keep him busy? What’s impossible for a clockwork to do?_

“Go on,” said Brutus, giving the boy a shove. “Go back and play with the children. When you can tell me ten things about them, I will let you into the Ancient Witchdoctor’s sanctum. Ten _good_ things.”

Able took a deep breath. “I learned that humans laugh when they are joyful and cry when they are not. When they are hungry, they eat, and when they are hurt, others help. Every living being has a heart. Everything with a heart is imperfect -”

 _Typical toy soldier._ “These are simple things, and only seven,” said Brutus, displeased. “What else have you learned?”

Able looked taken aback. Silently, he scratched his head.

“That’s right. Now go and play,” said Brutus, as Able turned and walked out of the room.

He watched the days pass as Able grew.

He was clumsy. The children poked and prodded him. They called him “toy soldier” and “paste-face”. They hid for hours in the cook’s secret spice cupboard so that he could never find them during hide and seek. Able did not mind their insults. He let them poke. He answered their questions.

Each day, he came to dinner, though he did not need to eat, and sat with the others with an empty plate before him. He passed the food when he was asked, but otherwise sat silently, and looked at everyone. One day, he came to dinner with dirt on his face, carrying a small girl in his arms. A red welt bloomed on her ankle, and tears streamed down her face. He brought her to her parents and waited for their attention.

“She tripped.” He told them.

“Oh, my sweet,” said her mother, lifting her daughter out of Able’s arms. She kissed the top of the girl’s head, and then the top of Able’s. He went still, then touched his forehead curiously.

 _Love and affection,_ his mother had once told him, _you'll learn later, my son._

“My mom knew I was hollow, and gave me a heart,” he told Brutus the following day. Like an infant unclasping its hands, he touched his own chest experimentally. “And my mother loved me.”

Able looked up at Brutus, as though embarrassed to have said that, but he continued.

“Everything needs a heart, no matter how hollow they are.”

Brutus’s smirk fell. It was replaced by a more genuine grin. He clapped him on the back.

“Ten good things. Maybe there’s more to you than meets the eye, sonny.”

Able looked down. “Have I learned enough to see the Ancient Witchdoctor?”

Brutus sighed with a smile. This Cusparian and her son were more trouble than they were worth. This boy, Able, questioned him nonstop, and Brutus grew tired.

“Stay here.” He walked into a room off of the foyer of the sanctum.

The candles to the Ancient Witchdoctor’s room came into view, and Able peered through the curtains with a doglike curiosity. Within the shadowy room, a bundle of blankets lay on a bed of straw, and a sickly puce hand lay atop them.

This human was different from the others. Her skin was knobbly and green. Her breaths were soft and laboured. He had felt the sickly aura around her when she had spoken with mother. He feared she was at the end of her human life, which did not make sense to Able, but he knew that not every human had a windup key.

When Brutus returned, he shoved a stick into the boy’s hands. Able nearly fell over backwards from the weight, but steadied himself at the last second, his feet digging into the dirt.

“What-” he puffed out steam, “What is this?”

“A wooden sword,” replied Brutus. He leaned down to place one huge hand on Able’s shoulder and used his other to point towards twenty-or-so training dummies. Each was outfitted with the remains of Armada soldiers’ armour, and each clenched a cutlass in its fist. As Brutus waved his hands, the training dummies came to life, their strong limbs and sackcloth bodies animating and assuming a strict upright position.

“If you can defeat these, I will let you see the Ancient Witchdoctor.”

_Now, this. This is something this boy cannot do. He has never even won a game with the children._

The legion looked down at Able. Able looked back at Brutus. Brutus counted the seconds until he would give up and walk out of the room.

But Able stayed silent. With great effort, he lifted his stick into a sparring position.

“Alright, kid,” he said, a little surprised. “Have at ‘em.”

The soldiers charged Able, who lifted his stick to parry their blows. His feeble arms snapped back with the force of their attack. He remained upright for barely five seconds before he was forced into the dirt with the butt of a blade. His joints creaking, he lifted his face from the ground and wiped mud off his mask.

“Again,” Able said.

He lasted less than three seconds. He stood up shakily.

“Again.”

The seventh time he fell, Brutus halted the soldiers. Steam whistled from Able’s body from exertion.

“You look tired,” remarked Brutus, regretting his decision to let the boy fight. The Ancient Witchdoctor had told his mother her son was in good hands.

Able used his stick to raise his shaking body off of the ground. “I have not learned what ‘tired’ is …”

Brutus shrugged. “When you’re at the last of your strength. When you don’t have the will to go on.”

“No …” said Able, lurching the weight of the stick to a combat position once more. “In that case, I am not tired.”

The days rolled past, bringing with them no Armada attacks. The aerial forces in every skyway had gone silent, watching with reverence as Deacon’s prize sailed to Valencia from the Monquistan border. Trade had ceased; no one dared extend the seven-year wait that had kept Kane from his most valued treasure, and even the people in Brutus’ tribe had ceased movement, though that was moreso due to the declining health of their Ancient Witchdoctor than international troubles.

In the meantime, Able sparred with the dummies every day and night. His legs were feeble and his swings were clumsy – after all, he had barely been able to walk beforehand – but nonetheless he battled the faux soldiers from dusk to dawn outside the sanctum of the Ancient Witchdoctor, never eating or resting, never putting down his blade.

“Are you certain you should leave the boy outside the Ancient Witchdoctor’s room?” said a friend of Brutus’ at dinner. “He’s growing skilled with that sword, you know.”

“Good,” said Brutus, and he did not talk for the rest of dinner.

The clashes rang through the halls at every hour. The children who had played hide-and-seek with him once upon a time watched wide-eyed as Able whirled in the dance of combat, the supple mud beneath his feet hardening with the force of thousands of steps, his face and hands cracking under countless blows. But he never cried out and never tired, even when the machinery in his body creaked and whistled and his sword was beaten down to a stick.

Brutus entered the Ancient Witchdoctor’s sanctum. The sound of battle echoed in the room.

“You should be in bed,” said Brutus, guiding her gently back toward her pile of blankets. She waved him off, leaning on her staff so heavily he was afraid it would crack under her.

“The world grows restless,” said the Ancient Witchdoctor. She coughed a dry, raspy cough.

“It’s a bad time to leave the world, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she replied. “On the contrary, I could not ask for a better time to make my exit. The boy grows strong in mind and body.”

Brutus furrowed his brow. “You can’t mean …”

She nodded, and just like that, there was silence, for the first time in days. Brutus ripped open the curtain to the sanctum.

There was Able, a porcelain face staring at him from within a cloud of steam and above a pile of sticks, masks, and armour – the remains of the training dummies. He approached Brutus without breaking eye contact and handed him back the sword. There was a thick gash in his mask from eye to chin. It made him look older.

“Your two labours are done, boy,” rasped the Ancient Witchdoctor. “It is time for your third.”

She beckoned him through the drapes to her chambers, and Able followed wordlessly. When she stumbled, he reached out to catch her, and he held her steady until she shuffled to her bed.

“Fine young man. Spitting image of your father. Your mother did an excellent job with all the … three hours you spent together.”

“My mother …” said Able.

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that. There is something more pressing you should know, boy. You may have noticed that I am dying.”

“I am sorry.”

“No, it’s about time,” she laughed. “I am the first Witchdoctor to ever exist. I have amassed knowledge twenty-thousand-times what you could learn in a lifetime. I have been alive for centuries upon end, and it is time for me to choose an heir to house my wisdom. Gazpaccio,” she coughed.

A wizened man emerged from the darkness. His shiny bald head contained but a few wisps of hair, and his pearly beard looked as though it had once been neatly trimmed, but it had since grown out. He had the rough hands of a tradesman, and he wore simple work clothes.

“He’s just like you said,” he breathed. His hands reached for Able, and Able flinched away. “The spitting image of my first creation.”

“He will not go down a similar path,” said the Ancient Witchdoctor sternly. “Do not forget your place. My warriors were only able to smuggle you out of Valencia because Kane is distracted by his prisoner. I summoned you for your technical know-how alone.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Shall we get started? I have all the equipment I need right here … my specialty, is of course, automata, so this transferal will be quite simple.”

“Boy,” said the Ancient Witchdoctor to Able, “You have grown strong. I can see beyond the clouds of the present. There will come a time, very soon, when the one who created you will need your aid. There will come obstacles, insurmountable obstacles, impossible even for you. But amid the darkness I foresee one light, one way through the end. I will give you my mind.”

Brutus dropped to his knees. “My lady …”

“You must break out of that habit, Brutus, unless you want to start calling this young man ‘my lady’.” She turned back to Able. “You show much promise, boy. You have learned how to love and how to battle. And when your mother needs you most, you will have learned my wisdom, too.”

Able stared, silent. Then, he reached over. He took her knobbly green palm in his smooth white one, and nodded.


	2. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT MY ORIGINAL PREMISE! This is a continuation of the wonderful story "The Steam Mistress" by DJFire102, which currently has no ending. The Steam Mistress, Sir Guiart, Grandfather Clocksworth and the general plot of the fic all belong to DJFire102. Please go read the original work at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848007.

You looked at your bedroom ceiling. Your eyes were wide, and your hands trembled around the music box that lay on your chest. The sweet familiar smells of your childhood comforted you, and your stuffed rabbit was a calming weight against your shoulder, but your mind was racing with the words Deacon had told you.

_I shall be frank with you … Tomorrow, you will die._

It had been three days, and you had not moved much at all from this position. Each evening, around sunset, Deacon would unlock your room and sweep through the door. He would make idle conversation, help you force down a morsel or two of food and half a glass of water, and give the same ultimatum.

“I’ve bought you one more night,” he had said on the first day. “There is still time for you to leave. I can smuggle you out of here, and you can carry out your sentence with me.”

The second day, he had said:

“I’ve persuaded Kane that you are not ready yet. We are already sailing to El Dorado in the Terpian skyways. Take my offer – I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”

The third day, he grew angry.

“[Y/n], we have been stationed at the gates to El Dorado for hours. Kane grows restless. I can no longer buy you time. Let me help you.”

“No,” you replied, as he stood in your room presently.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why do you insist on remaining here?”

You remained silent, and he clenched his fists, his calm demeanour close to bursting. He fought down his anger, and sat down beside you on your bed.

“I'm afraid you do not understand the stakes here. Kane will use every drop of your blood to become a god, and the world shall end. You will die – and for what? For love? [Y/n], Kane doesn’t love you.”

“But I love him!” You sat up in your bed, though it took every bit of your strength. You looked sick and fearful, but you mustered your will. “Even if he doesn’t love me!”

“No. You don't understand. He _never_ loved you,” said Deacon darkly. He stood up from the bed, and strode across the floor. “He has no _heart._ But it's no matter. I’ll come for you in the morning.”

Your brain flicked on as the door slammed.

_He has no heart …_

With shaking fingers, you looked at the music box, still playing its tune. The memory hit you like a hammer – sitting with Kane, his arms folded around you, the golden workshop lights twinkling like stars as the music box sang its heart out. Your heart hammered in your chest as you pulled up a chair and rummaged through your desk drawers. It pained you to destroy the music box, but if there was no other choice …

You looked out the window as the sun dipped behind the clouds. _I have until morning._

You gripped a screwdriver and began working on your only hope.

\---

_Tap tap tap._

The gentle rap on your door shocked you out of your seat, and you scrambled to hide your project. _Not yet! It’s not morning yet!_

“Just a few more minutes,” you whimpered, itching the circles under your eyes and feeling too light-headed to move. You tucked your creation in your back pocket just as the door opened.

“I see that you are not prepared, [y/n],” Kane remarked.

 _Kane._ Blood rushed to your face. You recalled the night your mother had left, when Kane had knocked on your door and comforted you. But you couldn’t think of that now – he was no longer the boy you knew from your childhood; he was the Supreme Commander of the Armada, and if Deacon was to be trusted, he was an angel of death.

Kane strode toward you and took your hands in his gloves. You couldn’t help but feel your heart leap in your throat as he lifted you into the dawn light.

He ran a thumb over the cut he had made several days earlier, then pressed down with his thumbs, just enough to be painful, and your hands grew pale. Then, he released them, and he stared as the blood poured back into your fingertips. “You are just as beautiful as the day I left you.”

He looked into your eyes.

“Together, we will create the perfect world. Your blood will help me achieve my perfect form, and I will raise you into your own.”

He drew his face close to yours.

“Today, I will make you my Queen.”

A pair of hands grabbed your shoulders and flung you toward the wall. Your shoulder slammed into it, and your legs just barely saved you from crumpling to the floor. You whipped around to see Deacon face to face with Kane; the former frustrated and breathing heavily, the second stone-faced.

“No," Deacon said, deathly quiet, the barrel of his gun inches from Kane’s nose. “I won’t let you.”

“Out of my way, Deacon.”

“You’ll kill her.” he said, turning his neck towards you. “[Y/n], get out of here.”

“You miserable fool,” Kane hissed, seizing the gun and aiming it back toward Deacon in one fluid motion. “Why do you disobey me, all of a su-?”

_“Because I love her!”_

Deacon pulled you toward him, crushing your body in an embrace.

“From the moment I saw you three years ago in that Monquistan hovel, you were astonishing, even behind your cloak. As Kane’s Spymaster, I learned even more about you. I learned to identify your hair by its durability, the exact size of your shoes by a mere shadow of a footprint, and your blood by its lustre. [Y/n], you have always been my prize.”

You trembled in his arms, despairing. The one you loved wanted to kill you; the one you hated loved you. The only way out was to choose, and either die drained of blood or suffering from a broken heart.

Without a beat, Kane fired his gun, and Deacon fell to the floor, his chassis blown open. His eyes sparked and went dim. You looked inside his chest with morbid, fearful curiosity.

As you had suspected, there was no heart within.

“Always his prize, indeed.” Added Kane, the barrel of his gun smoking and sparking. “It appears I made Deacon’s drive to search for you too strong. It makes no difference. He was not destined to exist in a perfect realm, anyway. [Y/n], come with.”

Kane grabbed your hand. This time, you felt no inkling of a happy thought when he looked down at you. All you saw when you looked into his face was a cold, expressionless mask, a toy soldier, a killer, a madman.

“Stop! _Stop!”_ You struggled in his grip, but he simply held onto you tighter. A scream ripped from your throat, and another, and another, the carpet below you tearing, the beautiful memories you had created in your room erased by his cold hard gaze. You scratched at his arms and kicked at his shins. After a particularly hard blow, he bent down to lift you off of your feet. He carried you like a child toward the elevator, and the wind and steam blew your cries into the ether. The walls on either side surged past. Light beamed down from above, as though you were rising into heaven, and he placed you on the ground atop the deck of the Grand Design.

The sight knocked the breath out of you. The sun raced along the pure gold deck and reflected in beautiful fractals. Giant curving beams cast stripes of shadow and light on the clouds. They looked like cotton balls, brushing past and curling into maw of a thunderous Stormgate. Kane’s court – Rooke and Bishop, minus Deacon and Phule – stood awaiting orders.

“These clouds should look familiar,” said Kane, one hand on your shoulder. “They are the clouds of Valencia, and part of the Stormgate to El Dorado. When I realized the importance of the clouds, I built my Machine on Valencia, and turned the island itself into a ship. We stand now at the Stormgate, where this world and El Dorado connect.”

He turned to look at you, the sunlight beaming off his perfect mask.

“And you are the key to passing through.”

Gently, he guided you toward the prow of The Machine. Each arch curved toward an ornate pedestal, inset with golden pearls. Atop it was the most beautiful gown you had ever seen.

The onyx fabric blew gently in the wind, the gold dazzling your eyes. Countless layers of gold and white trim were held to the bodice by whirling gears. A white mask was nestled in a collar of golden leaves, surrounded by bronze machinery. An empty glass vat was connected to the dress with silver tubes. Beyond the extensive display, the whirling Stormgate clashed with the rising sun.

You ascended the steps as though in a dream, Kane’s arm interlocked with yours. The Supreme Commander extended his arm toward the device, and the dress opened lengthwise, revealing a human-shaped indent the perfect size for your body. As you stood before the machine with the wind billowing around you, you remembered your only hope for survival, concealed in your back pocket. Despair ripped through your body. This was your last chance. You turned toward Kane with wide, pleading eyes.

“Kane … “

He looked back down at you.

“It’s me,” you continued. “Remember?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you doing this? Why are you going to kill me?”

He stayed silent, watching the Stormgate swirl its tenebrous arms this way and that.

“[Y/n],” he said, after a long pause. He placed both of his hands on your shoulders and spoke in a low voice.

“I am going to tell you why I removed my heart. It is a long story, so you must listen carefully.

“When you were young, I was summoned to the Valencian Court under royal decree. Your grandfather thought I was investigating the electric clouds that surrounded the island. I would eventually realize the extent of their importance, of course, but my true purpose – according to the King - was to build automata for his army.

“I did not accept his terms, even though the King impressed upon me that Polaris was growing in strength and would soon invade. Every major power was unnerved; in the courts, civilians complained of the raids, and we received reports of guerrilla forces drawing further into Marleybonian territory each day. Some had even ventured as far as Valencia itself. Rumours abounded that Napoleguin had hired pirates to do his bidding – what his bidding was, I hardly knew. But I feared the worst. I demanded transport to Cuspary. You may not remember this day, but I do, and vividly.

“When I reached the docks, you embraced me. I was elated at your happiness, because nothing had happened to you, and Cuspary was safe from the war. But I had made a fatal error in judgement, for that was the day that you were taken by pirates.

“My heart was in tatters. I searched for hours that day, until I collapsed in the dirt. I returned to Valencia and demanded scouts to look for you, armies to fight for you, the power to seize you back from the disgusting pirates Napoleguin had bribed. The King promoted me to Supreme Commander of his Royal Navy, and I worked tirelessly through the days and nights building an army from the ground up. I built Rooke, who battled the Polarian thugs. Countless scouts returned, battered and bruised, with no sign of you. My armies conquered Polarian territory and smashed their country to bits – still there was no sign of you.

“I left Polaris a wreck and directed my sights to Marleybone. Were you there, I wondered? I hired spies and pulled strings. I built Deacon, who infiltrated the highest and lowest rungs to search for you. I built Bishop, to make breakthroughs that would enable me to find you. I trawled desolate slums, I bribed corrupt officials, I put spies in every court from Cool Ranch to Monquista! – yet still, there were no signs of you.

“I began to lose hope. My heart was split in two, and yet it held control over my Golden Mind. I could barely work. And the King deemed me unfit for command as long as I remained this way. After weeks of suffering, he gave me a choice: I could step down from my position as Supreme Commander, and forfeit all hope of finding you, or I could remove my heart and return to my search. I chose the latter.

“My mind was clear. I never slept, never rested, never ate. My only goal was El Dorado – perfection – and _you._ In a perfect world, you would never be lost, and in a perfect body, you would never be hurt."

He clutched your hands feverishly. “I spent years of my life unfeeling and broken. Today marks the seventh year. Don’t you see? I spent my time, my energy, my soul, I removed my very heart … and I did it all for you.”

When he looked at you, you saw the faintest glimmer in his hollow eyes, like the ghost of an emotion. You stood in awe. Finally, you saw the Supreme Commander for what he was – he _was_ the boy you had known in your youth, but broken and hollowed out beyond recognition, and clutching at the vestiges of his humanity – you.

With trembling hands, you lifted the heart you had created out of your back pocket. Kane looked at the softly-beating thing, which reflected the turbulent Stormgate above, and took it in his hand. It beat faster and faster, bathing his mask in a bright red light.

He dropped the heart, and he looked back at you.

“[Y/n], you understand why I cannot do this. If I put in that heart, I will never have the courage to make us perfect. You will live in a ugly and horrible world, and you will be hurt. I cannot abide by that.”

“But –”

In a sweep of his gentle hands, he lifted you into the gilded gown. You felt the silver tubes connect with the keyhole on your neck.

“I love you,” you said, holding onto him for dear life.

He stopped.

“I love you too,” he said, clutching at the place his heart used to be.

The dress closed upon you, and a large object pierced your neck where your keyhole was. Instead of screaming out in pain, you felt yourself lifted toward the sky, light radiating around you, the mask moulding to your face.

You felt calm – a melancholy sort of calm. Because you loved Kane, you were unable to stop him, and because he loved you, you would die.

Your bright crimson blood flowed into the vat and filtered through the bottom to an unknown source. As your power left you, and your heart beat more feebly, the roaring wind dimming to a dull murmur. The Machine enveloped itself in a pulsing glow, feeding off of your sanguine power, and with powerful strides of its pistons, it raced toward the Stormgate. The writhing purple clouds fell away as the prow barrelled through them. Your heart beat slower and slower, and your eyelids grew weaker and weaker … the soft golden peaks of El Dorado peaked through the haze …

“Father,” came a far-away voice.

Your heart boomed.


	3. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT MY ORIGINAL PREMISE! This is a continuation of the wonderful story "The Steam Mistress" by DJFire102, which currently has no ending. The Steam Mistress, Sir Guiart, Grandfather Clocksworth and the general plot of the fic all belong to DJFire102. Please go read the original work at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848007.

Kane whipped toward that sound, the mechanisms in his eyes focusing immediately on the speck that appeared from the starboard side.

Approaching the Machine was a small Monquistan fleet. Its ships were decorated with tinkling bones and leaves, and their sails were tattered, but the crew looked on with determination.

He recognized most of the sailors. Witchdoctors spanned the breadth of the navy. Guiart brandished his rapier from one of the many crow’s nests; Kane had personally seen to it that the foolish ape, along with other Monquistan higher-ups, were punished for concealing the Steam Mistress. That familiar fighter who hung back was Brutus – Kane often received reports from his soldiers of his magical aptitude. Kane narrowed his eyes at the small figure of Gazpaccio with calculated indifference. He had not expected him to still be alive. But the most intriguing person was one whose name he could not place.

The stranger stared up at him with eyes much like his own, set within a mask identical to his. A long cut ran down his face. He wore commoner’s clothes, and he had thrown on a green cloak that looked as though it had been made for someone much smaller than him. His gaze pierced Kane from leagues and leagues away – and he was quickly approaching.

“My lord!” said Rooke, appearing at his shoulder. “I will smite these interlopers. Is this your will?”

Kane pushed Rooke away and approached starboard without lifting his eyes from the stranger. The flagship rose into the Stormgate, sails billowing and thrashing, until the two stood facing each other, inches away, still as statues in the Terpian sky.

 _“Able,”_ sobbed his Queen, _“My son ...”_

The boy drew his sword – it was a standard-issue blade from the likes of an Armada soldier.

“Release her!” shouted the mob behind him, “Release the Steam Mistress!”

Kane lifted his chin. _Of course._ Deacon’s reports on the Steam Mistress’ whereabouts had often contained references to parts and gears strewn behind, as though forgotten or scrapped, though Kane had never thought that you would be able to create such a being from scratch. Very well.

 _“’Able’_ … is that what she called you?” asked Kane, raising his sword to mirror the boy. “How fitting. And how ironic it will be when you die at my hand.”

 _“No!”_ shouted his Queen, struggling in her bonds. Her blood was already providing the fuel he would need to enter the Stormgate – and repelling this puny army would be simple.

Kane swung at Able experimentally, and Able moved away quick as a wink. His foot landed on the edge of the prow, and he twitched it back into his starting position.

“Able! Careful, my boy, her wisdom hasn’t awakened yet!” cried Brutus from the fleet.

Able raised his hand to stop them as if to say, _don’t help me yet,_ panting a little.

Kane smirked. _Too late. You have already shown me three things:_

_One: You did not parry, you dodged. You would rather play keep-away than fight._

Kane grabbed the side of Able’s mask and threw him onto the deck of The Machine with a resounding thud. _I am simply too fast for that silly game._

_Two: Your steps are uncertain. You have only ever battled on solid ground._

The boy rolled to a stop and leapt back up like a jack-in the box, just in time for Kane to swing back and kick him to the port side as though he were nothing. _And I have battled on land, sea, and sky._

_Three: You denied your friends entry into battle, and made the mistake of fighting me alone._

He advanced toward Able, now sandwiched between the abyss beneath and Kane before him. Kane readied his rapier and prepared for the final blow, raising his silver blade in both of his fists. _Check._

“My lord!”

Kane whipped around. He parried the blows raining down upon him with ease, expertly deflecting the Witchdoctors’ myriad weapons and spells.

“Nice try,” he told the boy, as Able’s small army surrounded him. “Did you truly think I hadn’t accounted for this? _Rooke!”_

Without hesitation, Rooke barrelled into the crowd of Witchdoctors, their spells bouncing off his armour. He lifted his battleaxe into the wind and brought it down. It crunched through the enemies and sent them spiralling offdecks.

A Monquistan grabbed hold of his axe and was flung into the air. “Brutus! Gaz!” shouted Guiart, “Flee and help Able! Get that blood back into [y/n]!”

 _“Bishop!”_ commanded Kane.

Sparks flew from Bishop’s staff toward the two who escaped Rooke’s carnage. He cackled, and electricity shot through the air to slam into Brutus. Gazpaccio stood, shaking, as Brutus hit the ground.

“Kane!” Gazpaccio cried to his son, who held Able at swordpoint below him. Able fought to keep his head from lolling off the edge. “Stop this at once!”

“No,” growled Kane. “This was what you _built_ me for. _Revenge. Perfection._ I am no longer your puppet. It sickens me to see you had a hand with this one.” Kane dipped the point of his sword toward Able’s chest and felt his heartbeat race up the blade.

“I see ... she even gave him a heart. _Why_ you humans insist on soiling what is already perfect, I do not know.”

The boy gripped the edge of his sword. Kane looked down at him.

“Everything needs a heart, no matter how hollow they are,” said Able softly.

Kane stopped for a moment, perfectly still. His mask reflected the storm of battle raging around him, and something flickered in his eyes … the memory of tiny hearts in blueprints, in a world far, far away …

Then, without warning, he grabbed Able’s coat and flung him into an upright position in the centre of the deck.

 _“Out of my way,”_ he ordered the masses. Kane and Bishop leapt into action; Rooke hurtled straight through the carnage to split it in two while Bishop zig-zagged the deck to sweep the combatants toward either the starboard or port side. Kane strode toward Able until he was stationed before his Mistress on the bow, making a cutting motion with his hand. Rows of Armada foot soldiers encircled the father and son.

“Let’s see if you can prove that statement,” snapped Kane. “Me and my soldiers, each without a heart, against a boy who has one. Surely, an unfair game.”

Able stayed silent. His tattered cape billowed behind him in the wind. He looked at the twenty soldiers surrounding him, then Kane, and finally toward his mother, limp and pale, her blood dripping into the vat that drove the ship into the churning Stormgate. The spires of El Dorado grew clearer by the second. The Witchdoctors’ sailboats struggled against the Stormgate’s currents.

In a practiced motion, he lifted his sword and entered a sparring stance.

The soldiers came at him like lightning. His sword leapt to each parry and drove away each attacker, his feet expertly switching positions like a dancer’s. His simple Armada blade was striking blur of silver. It was far from a keep-away game, and it was far from anything Kane had seen before.

Short of what Kane himself was able to do, of course.

The two engaged, and the clashing forces whirled around the deck like twin cyclones, never quite touching. Kane calculated it all in slow motion: when Able’s foot surged forward, parry, and counter-attack – then counter-counter attack, parry once more, and kick – follow with a side-step and a lunge …

Able held his ground.

“That’s my boy!” shouted Brutus from the sidelines.

Kane lunged once again and narrowed his eyes at the lack of contact.

 _This is impossible,_ Kane thought, _impossible!_ He watched the boy deflect his blow and parry seven others in a series of flashes and strikes. The two were perfectly matched. The crowd’s murmuring rose from near silence to deafening cheers.

_Did he goad me into giving him a situation he was adept in?_

Kane fell back as Able slashed him in the chest – once, twice, thrice. He stood, in shock, as a sheet of metal fell from his chest, exposing the clockwork beneath.

Able drew his sword back, and Kane raced toward the prow. He gave a running leap and brought down his blade, smashing the vat of the Steam Mistress’ blood.

_Checkmate!_

“No!” shouted Guiart and Brutus. Certain death awaited the Steam Mistress if her blood could not be returned to her.

“Don’t let him touch the blood!” cried Gazpaccio, “He will be unbeatable!”

Kane placed one foot into the fountain. The crowd gasped, and shouts of dismay rang across the deck of the Machine.

The blood surged up his leg and into his mechanisms, pulsing a vibrant crimson once, twice …

 _“Mother,”_ Able cried. He searched the battlefield frantically, but to no avail. He fell to his knees in despair.

He closed his eyes.

 _Ancient Witchdoctor,_ he began. _When last we met, you told me I would come across insurmountable obstacles and impossible challenges when I ventured to save my mother from my father. I have tried to give him my love. I have tried to best him in battle. Now, when my mother needs me most, I beg of you to give me your wisdom._

He opened his eyes hopefully – Brutus had told him that the Ancient Witchdoctor’s power would take time to awaken – and again swept his eyes along the ship. Kane’s whole body was awash in red light, crackling and blazing with power. No, nothing – there was _nothing!_ No moves to make, no hope of forfeit, _nothing!_

Kane surged through the crowd like an angel of death, felling countless soldiers in one sweep of his sword. He picked Able’s prone body up by his collar and flung him to the stern. Able’s sword snapped in two like a blade of straw, and Able himself smashed into the golden floorboards.

He looked down at his legs, tangled and jutting out at odd angles. He looked up dizzily at the Stormgate roiling above, seeing his mother’s pale body afloat beside him. He felt as though he had been slapped.

Kane once again raised his sword in both hands to finish Able off. In a vestigial, childlike reflex, Able clutched his mother’s hand and buried his face deep within the fabric of her dress, feeling again like a small boy. _This is the end._

 _No, it’s not,_ a stern, familiar voice told him.

Able gasped. _The Ancient Witchdoctor!_

 _Look there,_ she told him.

As though directed by some invisible force, Able’s eyes moved of their own accord toward an object at Kane’s feet. It sat just outside the pool of blood, quivering and pulsing. His vision tunneled, and the heart glowed increasingly as he took it within his hands.

_Now, boy. Draw on your own wisdom._

Able looked back at his friends, locked in a futile battle behind him. He looked up at Kane, and in a last-ditch panic, he turned on the music box.

_You are my sunshine_

_My only sunshine_

_You make me happy_

_When skies are grey_

Kane’s sword halted in midair. The world was silent, save for the song that played quietly from the makeshift heart.

_You’ll never know, dear_

_How much I love you_

_Please don’t take my sunshine away_

Able clutched the heart in his hands, seizing Kane’s moment of hesitation. He leapt toward his father and embraced him, forcing the heart into his chest, hugging him so tightly he feared his arms would snap. Blood spattered on him, and he felt painful spasms of power through his body, but he didn’t care - he put that power, he put those seven years of his mother’s love for him, into his father, and hoped that would be just enough.

Kane’s head whipped back like lightning as every unfelt emotion from the past years hit him like a tidal wave. The anger, sadness, joy, melancholy, jealousy, despair, and regret flooded through him, amplified by the powerful blood that seeped into his system. Oil poured from his mask, and light bright as the dawn beamed from his eyes and every crack in his armour.

“It’s too much!” cried Gazpaccio, “Neither of your bodies are built for this power!”

Kane whipped around with inhuman strength and ripped his Mistress out of the Queen’s getup, wrapping her pale body and soiled clothing in a bone-crushing embrace. He wrapped his son in his other arm, and the three crashed to the floor in a heap.

 _“My lord!”_ shouted Rooke, surging toward his master.

“Stop right there, sonny,” snarled Brutus, rising up to Rooke’s height. “Guiart, turn this ship around!”

“No - we must evacuate!” cried Gazpaccio, whose shouts were punctuated by a thunderous growl that vibrated through the entire Machine. “No ship can handle such a large quantity of a Steam Mistress’ blood!”

“Aye aye, sir!” said Guiart. “Everyone, to the boats!”

“Mother …” crackled Able’s voice box, lifting his battered hand to your face. Your eyes fluttered open. Your heart felt completely still, but tears flooded from you as you held Kane and Able in your weakened arms.

“My son … my love …” you said, clutching the two as hard as you could muster.

Able felt his chassis shake with sobs. He looked up at his father and mother, forced apart because of false love …

Forced apart because of distrust …

Forced apart because of wars …

Forced apart because of pirates …

Forced apart because of clockworks and kings …

Forced apart because of anger and infighting …

Forced apart because of duty and sadness …

And finally brought together through love.

And the whole world went black.

\---

_That smell…_

_It’s so calming…_

The smell of cold brisk air that clouded the room, the smell of copper and cold hard stone, the smell of the relaxing meadow that greeted the sun every morning.

Sunlight fell on your face, turning the backs of your eyelids red. You wanted to sleep more, to ease the aches and pains throughout your body and cocoon yourself in these soft sheets.

_“Very difficult procedure … never be the same after this, no, but …”_

Grandfather Clocksworth?

You opened your eyes blearily. It took all your effort to adjust to the sunlit area. Your arms and legs felt as though they were made of stone, and as you moved to sit up, your neck burned with a pain so fierce you passed out once more.

“[Y/n]!”

You shot awake, gasping. You had been propped up with a few pillows.

“Oh, thank the stars,” said your grandfather, putting his face in his hands. His eyes shone with relief, and you smiled at him weakly.

“Grandpa …” you choked out, your eyes filling with tears.

“Shh, shh, shh.” He put his finger to his lips. “You have been through a very complex operation. You lost a lot of blood, my dear.”

The memories came flooding back – Deacon’s death, The Machine, the Queen’s dress, the battle, Able’s sudden appearance …

 _“Kane …?”_ you whispered.

Your Grandfather pursed his lips.

“Not … not now, my dear.”

You made another movement with your lips, but he again put a finger to his to shush you.

“You must concentrate on recovering first. You may have heard me talking to Gazpaccio about an operation. Your heart was in terrible condition after the incident a few weeks ago.”

_A few weeks?_

“Not to mention you had lost a lot of blood. You were declared dead when we got to you. But there was one thing to be done, one thing that Gazpaccio and I agreed on.”

He lifted the covers from your chest. You blinked a few times in awe. Your ribcage had been replaced by curved bronze arches, and your lungs had been encased in soft silver sheets. Hundreds of tiny cogs whirred away within you. And in the middle of it all was …

“A Golden Heart,” you managed to say, disbelieving. “How …?”

“Kane’s Golden Heart, actually,” said Grandfather Clocksworth. “When Able picked me up in Monquista, he asked me if I knew where his father’s heart was. I did, in fact – who do you think Kane trusted to remove it?

“Able smuggled me and the heart belowdecks. I was to hide there from Kane until he was defeated, and _if_ he was defeated, I would replace his heart. But my clever granddaughter and her clever son figured out the solution before I could get there.” He tapped the side of his nose, looking at you with pride.

“But you … you were teetering on the edge of death, my dear,” he continued, softly, gravely. “There was only one thing to be done, but it was dangerous and unprecedented. Gazpaccio and I put aside our differences to take on the project – putting a Golden Heart into a human. And here you stand … or-or sit, my dear … no longer a Steam Mistress …”

For the first time in your life, you saw your grandfather crying. Tears poured down his normally jolly red face, and he took you in his arms.

You felt your eyes sting once again, out of melancholy, and out of fear.

You managed a whisper.

“Hum?” said your Grandfather.

“Aren’t you … disappointed?” you asked. “My blood is tainted … like mother’s was …”

“Oh.” Your grandfather tilted his head. You furrowed your brow.

“Oh … _oho-ho-ho-ho-ho!_ My dear, you still remember that day I was angry with your mother. I was frustrated all those years ago because, I admit, I did not understand why she rejected her gift.” He rubbed circles into your hand with his thumb.

“I understand now. Such pain comes with this power. I told the both of you that you had a duty to use it and profit from it, without realizing the trouble it would bring. I deeply regret that night. But my dear, I am not crying because you are no longer a Steam Mistress.”

He clutched you to his chest like he would never let go.

“I am crying because my beautiful granddaughter is _alive.”_

You hugged him back, feeling relief flow through you.

“It’s been so long, my girl … so many years …”

\---

It was quite a while before you could walk again. You were immensely pleased to discover that you were back on Cuspary – or what remained of it, anyways. The siege had torn the city apart, and where there had once stood shops and beautiful fountains, only their wooden skeletons remained, reclaimed by moss and vines. You wandered through the familiar alleys in the sunlight, smelling the familiar smells and looking sadly at all the areas you had once explored with Kane at your side.

 _Kane._ Your heart gave a lurch. Your Golden Heart thumped in your chest with increased ardour each time he crossed your mind. If your grandfather and Gazpaccio had not built you a new ribcage, you were certain it would beat a hole in your body.

Of all the tearful reunions – Guiart, Grandfather Clocksworth, Gazpaccio, even your beautiful only son, Able – Kane had not been present. Grandfather Clocksworth changed the subject each time you brought it up. He had never even mentioned performing maintenance. You were led to believe, to your utter dismay, that Kane simply hadn’t been salvaged from the battle on The Machine. But you could never be content with that. He must be somewhere in the Spiral, even if it weren’t Cuspary.

You felt the keyhole in the back of your neck. There was no use for it now that your heart had been replaced, and you were no longer stuck with the duties of a Steam Mistress. It felt as though a weight had been lifted off your chest. Done were the years of hiding, be it from the Armada, pirates, or your past. El Dorado was safe yet – something told you it was never meant to be discovered. And yet, you still felt incomplete. You could not yet release those years of sadness while Kane was still missing from your life.

You turned the corner to the palace grounds, and your heart gave such a powerful _lurch_ that you were forced forward a few steps.

Standing in the middle of the grounds ... was _him._

Kane’s hands were behind his back, and his Supreme Commander’s robe was in tatters. He was missing his hat. His hair blew softly in the wind as he looked up at the Palace where you had resided once upon a time. He hadn’t noticed you.

You felt your Golden Heart race so fast and so loudly you thought you would burst. Blood filled your cheeks, and for a minute you simply stood there, watching Kane, content to live in this moment in time eternally as the sun glimmered on the grass and the wind rustled your hair. In a trance, you took a step toward him.

His gaze snapped toward you, and before you got a chance to stop him, he had bolted through the palace gates.

“Wait!” you cried, sprinting after him. You tore across the palace grounds. Years of practice made you fast, and you were reminded of the races you two used to have before this all happened. Gravel scraped your heels, and your lungs worked tirelessly. Was he still faster than you, after all these years?

He was almost at the gate – if you couldn’t reach him before he reached the edge of the grounds, he would most surely surge down one of the side streets, never to be seen again.

You couldn’t lose him after all this!

_“Wait!”_

You grabbed the collar of his coat and yanked him back, but your momentum was too strong - the two of you fell against the gate in a heap. Your body hit the hard ground, and you cried out in pain, but Kane was already on his feet.

You fought back tears, burying your head in your arms.

_Come back … come back …_

“[Y/n].”

A feeling of lightness entered you. There was a pressure on your waist, and the sun once again hit your eyes as you were hoisted into the air, face tilting back in the wind. When you regained your bearings, you saw Kane looking up at you, your makeshift heart pulsing determinedly in his chest. You remembered a time like this seven years ago, in the shops of Cuspary, but the details were fuzzy when he was looking into your eyes like this.

He completed your arc in the air and brought you to his chest.

 _“I’m sorry,”_ he said.

It was such a simple phrase, but it carried years of pain, anger, and sadness. He released them all, all of his emotions and actions, for you, their target, to judge. His cold exterior had disappeared, and below it was a hollowness. He looked so tired, and so sad. There were trails on his cracked mask just below the eyeholes, where oily tears had congealed. Your hearts pulsed in sync – your makeshift heart in his chest, and his golden one in yours – and you leaned down to kiss him.

When you pulled away, he touched his fingers to his lips. It reminded you of how Able had been when he was younger.

You cupped his face. “I forgive you.”

His face cracked into a smile, and he looked years younger, as if no time had passed since you two had been together seven years ago. Your foreheads touched. Ages of melancholy, regret, and sorrow drained away from the both of you, falling away in layers and layers, as you two spun around like children in the light of the sun in the place you two had grown up together. Kane kissed you again, and you laughed at the unexpected touch.

“That was for leaving you,” he said. “Many, many times.”

You saw a familiar face approaching the gate, and smiled at him brightly. Your son came toward the both of you, his arms outstretched.

“Oh, Kane,” you said, kissing your son on the head, “You never left. Not really.”

The three of you embraced. That familiar smell of your youth had returned, and Kane along with it. You hugged your family together in an unbreakable embrace, all three of your mechanical hearts beating like drums. For once, there were no tears, there was no sadness, and you smiled freely while the dawn sun bloomed, the buildings of Cuspary glowed, and the Spiral spun around you like clockwork.

“I love you,” he said.

“How much do you love me?”

Kane lifted his head, finally content. He pushed your hair back from your face, and kissed you again.

“With all my heart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, what a ride. Again, please give DJFire102's story a read at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848007.


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